


An Evening In

by DataTrekker



Series: Smart Sharks [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Charles Augustus Magnussen - Freeform, Companionable Snark, Conversations, Gen, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Mycroft-centric, Post Reichenbach, Quarrels, Snark, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, post series 3, witty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DataTrekker/pseuds/DataTrekker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Mycroft spend the night indoors, bickering. How exciting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Evening In

They sit by the fire that doesn’t give off enough heat even though it’s raging. They have their feet upon ornamental stools as they recline in ornamental but functional chairs, bulging softness contained by expensive velvet. The windows are frosted and patterns of thin ice have imprinted themselves upon the immensely thick glass. There’s a sultry sound playing the background but it’s there not to entice a mood but as a spiteful reminder to each other. A bitter and cheap laugh at each other’s expense. Both so superior and yet matched in so many ways.

The first sits upon his chair with leisure and calmness, the other sits with an exhausted stillness. Neither move and nor do they have to. If either wished they would never have to move again. But they don’t wish for that, as other might, for their jobs don’t have them slaving in the sun it does have them slaving in another, for their genius and purposefulness. Though neither would admit such a thing they both live for the same reason, they find themselves too brilliant to squander their lives on the frivolous and too vacant to be emotionally fulfilled. So they sit together, in a house that’s filled with all but dreams and spend their nights filling each other’s lives with mindless and bitter witticisms, for they are of superior minds but also opposing thoughts.

“There are spares in the drawer, you don't need the lenses because you don't need to see.” Mycroft said, casually brushing aside Charles’ occupation.

“Perhaps I just don't want you growing too fond of me. I could not stand that attention.”  
“That's a shame. I've been rather fond of you when you sleep. You handled that attention so well, probably because of the drugs.” Mycroft has a sip of wine, wine from the same bottle as Charles. They share occasional glances as they talk to each other but otherwise they stared vacantly into the fire, both rattling off replies with barely any realisation. Yes, this is how people talked.

“If handling it well means swatting away hallucinations for bottomless nights of restless highs, then yes, I handle it fine.”

“See? You handle it fine. I'm sure your old, lanky body can survive other things.”

“I should hope so. Though I dare admit I've had some very sore mornings after your occasional experimental nights” Charles sighed, exasperated at the mere thought of how some of his mornings start.

“I did send for a masseur for you.”

“I appreciated it. It helped. He was far more pleasant about touching than you were. Perhaps I'll have your hands removed." 

“Oh please. Might as well have your genitalia removed them, since you don't know how to use them either.” Mycroft took a sip of his wine, flicking over a page of a very large report.

“Using your logic, shall I have your head removed also? Seeing as how you're not very good at using it these days.”

“I'm using it brilliantly, I don't squander my intelligence like you do on such petty things like art and blackmail.”

“I also own a newspaper, you know. Don't forget the newspaper.” Charles’ stubbornness shows itself just as clearly as Mycroft’s pursuit of pleasures does. He’s almost offended at how basic Mycroft describes him.

“Oh please, who /doesn't/ own one?”

They drop the conversation, not wishing to speak anymore. It’s a silence they both enjoy, feeling no pressure to fill the vacuum with anything but themselves. Mycroft looks to Charles, just to admire his profile, high shallow cheekbones. A sharp nose. Grey stubble and a thin, receding hair. The bitter blackmailer. With an effort greater than he would ever care to seriously admit Mycroft tore his eyes away to stare into the flames.

“You looked rather nice with a gun to your head. Just another Friday night for you, then.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“You make it sound like that matters.”

“Wednesdays are knives, you know that.” Charles sounds rather parental as he corrects Mycroft. 

“Must I wait two more days to experience the sweet relief of your death?”

“Sounds like impatience to me. You'd never pass up an opportunity to amplify my suffering. I'll start hiding your toys.”

"An excuse to buy new ones, bigger ones, I think you're ready for them.” Mycroft leans over his chair to smile coldly at Charles, of course Charles simply looks at him with dead eyes.

“I should learn to keep my mouth shut around you.” Charles sighs, deflated and utterly forlorn.

“And yet you still continue you talk to me.”

“With the small hope that my voice will continue to dance around your head and drive you into premature dementia.”

“Oh I do love it when you try being hopeful, it makes that dying glint in your eyes ever so much more satisfying.”

Silence again. They both take focus of their work. Charles had a tablet in hand, and read over what will be tomorrow’s headlines. A particularly annoying Minister that they both had disdain for was going to be featured on the front page, with ‘evidence’ leaked from ‘an anonymous high ranking official.’ Charles’ odd partner in arms, Mycroft, had some loose threads that were enough to weave a story of corruption and treachery regarding this particular Minister, ensuring Charles’ papers better sales and allowed for Mycroft to solve a particular problem in the Cabinet by offering a troublesome journalist a soon-to-be-open position. Meanwhile Mycroft read over another Ministers proposal, one of a dozen he had to read that night. 

“I’m terribly bored.”

“I only stepped out for a moment.”

“I'm surrounded by goldfish, you're the only dog around.”

“Ever tried playing fetch with yourself in my absence? You could lick your /own/ balls for a change.” Mycroft smiles coldly at the comment but doesn’t look up.

“No, I rather enjoy the miserable look in your cold eyes as you finally put that tongue to good use.”

“And you wonder why I step out so often.”

“I'm often amazed you can still carry yourself out the door considering the things I do to you. Woof.” Mycroft smirks, lightly snapping his teeth at Charles. 

“I do not care if I must call for a wheelchair on your most creative of nights.”

“I enjoy pushing you around in that wheelchair and dumping you in the gardens. Pushing you down hills. Into traffic.”

“Quite troublesome. But not half as bad as what I do to your tea on your most deflated of evenings.”

“I switched the rat poison with sugar.” Mycroft put the paper side, into a red box, and selected another report, highlighter in hand, just for the duller people who needed things pointed out to them.

“Perhaps I should strip you and lock you outside, so you can piss in the yard like the filthy beast you are?”

“I'm no use to you in the backyard, Mycroft. No one else is going to tolerate you when you've decided to break into the new women's lingerie you purchased just last Thursday. I'm still expecting that strip tease, you know.”

"You are? I'll make sure to strap you to the bed then, touching's extra."

“Extra? I can provide. No use in just watching.” Charles gave Mycroft his most sultry look, purely out of spite.

“What did we purchase again? Was it Dr Stangelove or something else?"

"Something else. I offered many designs to my liking but you declined them all, saying 'I wear what makes ME feel sexy!'."

“It's really because we simply can't have you enjoying yourself.”

“Careful before I seek satisfaction in another rabid-eyed possum.”

“Then what do /you/ want? Should we dress you up as a gimped out fur suiter?” Mycroft put the paper down, turning a bit to face Charles better.

“I don't fancy wearing the outfits, Mycroft.”

“Oh I do doubt that, right now you're wearing your starved of sex outfit. What should I get then? What do you want from me?”

“Perhaps a harness. It'd be easier to mount you if you neighed like a horse too.”

“I never imaged you the leather type. Perhaps we'll tie you to a stake and write "Bear bait" on your chest?”

“Perhaps, though that has nothing to do with leather. You're fat enough to pull it off. The tight straps will slim you down.”

“And leave a mark on my immaculate body? Never.”

“I've left plenty of marks.” Charles smiles up, over his glasses.

“Like it's hard.”

“It can be. You tend to squirm beneath my touch. And it's hard to focus on anything when you make such suggestive noises.”

“Haven't you got mice to catch in your maggot infested mouth?” Mycroft shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.

“Come now, Mycroft, be civil with me for a moment.”

“Started taking testosterone again? It's the only way to explain the sudden appearance of a sex drive. Either that or you’ve recently seen your mother.”

“No, just yours.” Charles turned off his tablet and glanced at Mycroft.

“Taken to necrophilia? I’m not surprised, you look so similar to a corpse, might as well sleep with them too.”

“As opposed to bestiality, just another reason, among the thousands, that I will never touch you.”

“I grow weary, shall we retire?”

“Yes, let’s.”

Mycroft packed away the reports, pressing them into neat piles. Always so neat.

“I wish to be the smaller spoon tonight.”

“Alright, at least I won’t have to deal with your roaming hands.”

“You could always lock them up.” Mycroft yawns as he stands, stretching and shuffling his way out of the game room and down the hall. Charles follows suit.

“Like last time? You managed to choke me until I fainted.”

“And it was worth it as well, to get the last of those sweets.”

“I hope the acid trip was worth my very possible death.”

“Oh it was.”


End file.
